Not Gentle Into That Good Night
by GeoffreyF
Summary: A rather dark tale about where Susan's life may have led her.


**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters created by C.S. Lewis, nor do I own the extract from a poem by Dylan Thomas that I have used.**

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Not Gentle Into That Good Night

by GeoffreyF

_Do not go gentle into that good night,_

_Old age should burn and rave at close of day;_

_Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

- Dylan Thomas

A light breeze blows over the verdant, painfully neat lawn; the leaves rustle suggestively on the bushes. Under a window, a robin feeds her young, their hungry mouths opened skywards. The robin obliges her greedy offspring, and then checks the coast is clear. Seeing no movement, she darts off to find more delicious worms for her babies.

The breeze encounters a barrier at the window. Within, there is none of the vigour and hope that characterises the spring, only a scrupulously clean room, with a bed in the centre. An old woman sits in the bed, her delicate frame contrasting with the agate in her eyes. She stares into nothingness, her wizened, ringless hands folded on her lap.

Outside the door, in a long blue hallway infested with doors, interspersed with prints of cheerful, shallow paintings, Nurse Richards pauses in the hall. She holds a tray bearing toast and marmalade, fried eggs and a glass of milk. Standard fare for her charges.

Nurse Richards remembers the day Miss Pevensie arrived at Greenfields Home. She had no relatives, so she had been directed to them by the police station, after she was found, alone and confused, in the middle of the busy High Street. Yet she had still been sure of spirit; her periods of forgetfulness had been infrequent. She had inspected her room with a practiced eye, checking the bedside clock-radio against her handsome watch and sniffing disdainfully at the "frivolous" bedstead, which was interwoven with images of wood spirits and creatures of the forest. It had been left to the home by an eccentric old collector who had finished his days here, and hadn't been moved since his death.

Nurse Richards also knows that Miss Pevensie is no longer the competent, businesslike woman she was when she arrived. She has watched the old woman's deterioration with concern, and has recommended she be transferred to a higher care facility. There is only so much that a home can do, after all.

Nurse Richards shakes herself out of her reverie, and knocks lightly on the door. There is no answer, but she does not expect one, and enters regardless.

"Good morning, Miss Pevensie," she says cheerily, setting the tray on the bedside table and crossing to open the window. "It's a perfectly lovely day, don't you think?"

Miss Pevensie squints at the window. Her eyesight, too, is much poorer than it once was. "Is it?" she asks, in a thin voice.

"Oh yes," says Nurse Richards. "There's a lovely breeze."

Miss Pevensie sniffs disapprovingly, as though breezes were disruptive to the natural dignity of life.

"I've brought your breakfast," Nurse Richards reminds her.

Miss Pevensie casts her eye vaguely over the tray on her table, but makes no response to it.

"Now, be reasonable, dear," says Nurse Richards, striding over to the bedside table. "It's breakfast time. It's time to eat."

Miss Pevensie doesn't object when the tray is placed firmly on her lap. She begins to eat, but her mind is clearly elsewhere. She lifts the food to her mouth mechanically, her eyes still fixed on that nothingness before her.

Nurse Richards reflects with concern that it has been days since Miss Pevensie has been out of bed. She knows that there are no serious physical problems; nothing unusual for a woman of her age, anyway. She may be stiff, but Nurse Richards is sure that a change of scenery will do her good.

"I thought you might like to go on our outing today," she says, straightening the radio on Miss Pevensie's desk. "We're going to the countryside – not very far, but to a very lovely meadow I know. There's a little walk that I know some of the other ladies are very keen to see – a little waterfall runs somewhere nearby, I believe."

Miss Pevensie gives no sign that she has heard, and goes on eating her breakfast.

"What do you think, dear?" asks Nurse Richards.

Miss Pevensie turns suddenly to look at her. "That's Your Majesty to you, thank you!" she says haughtily.

Nurse Richards is surprised. Miss Pevensie must be worse than she had thought. She leans down to remove the now empty tray from the bed.

"Whatever you say, dear," she says, and turns to the door, her mind intent on the Doctor and the arrangements that must, now, be hastened.

The door closes with a soft click. Miss Pevensie, who appears to be in a more animated mood than usual, casts her eyes around the room. She fingers the wood spirits on her bedstead appreciatively, whispering names to herself.

Suddenly, and with surprising energy, she swings herself out of bed. Ignoring the walking stick, she hobbles over to the window and looks out. She takes a deep breath, inhaling all the smells of spring. She smiles as she notices the robin's nest beneath her, the chicks trying to be inconspicuous among the leaves.

Miss Pevensie turns and surveys her room again. It seems very drear compared to the scene outside her window. It seems to remind her of something; she closes her eyes for a moment, as if savouring the memory. The hard lines on her face soften suddenly; she looks happy, but very sad at the same time. She clasps her hands in front of her, and opens her eyes.

They fall upon the tall wooden wardrobe on the opposite wall. An idea seems to form in her confused mind, and she makes her way slowly but purposefully towards it. She holds onto the bed for support as she passes it, and comes to a halt facing the two plain doors. The wardrobe dwarfs her shrunken frame as she reaches with a hand for the knob.

She opens the door, revealing her clothes hung up neatly before her. They are very sensible clothes, especially for someone of her age. She runs her hands over them, frowning slightly. She pauses over a fur coat, an impulsive purchase many years ago that she hasn't worn for years. She runs her hand over it thoughtfully, and presses it to her pale cheek, smiling slightly.

Hesitantly, she places a bare foot onto the wardrobe's wooden base. Her white nightdress moves slightly in the breeze, but it seems to stir a different memory in Miss Pevensie. Her eyes light up with some long-forgotten hope, and she pulls herself into the wardrobe.

She reaches out in front of her, but her hands feel nothing. The wardrobe is a deep one, but Miss Pevensie appears to take some different meaning from it. She starts forward but she has no support in here; it is, apparently, a very big wardrobe. She wobbles, her legs unused to supporting her weight alone. But Miss Pevensie's eyes are fixed in front of her, and she smiles at what she sees. She takes another small step forward, her face alight and her hands outstretched.

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Nurse Richards stands with the minister sadly before the grave. There is no one else at the funeral. The minister murmurs a prayer and places a hand on her arm. He smiles understandingly at her, and then turns to make his way back to the church.

Nurse Richards is still shaken from discovering Miss Pevensie sprawled on the floor before the wardrobe in her room, her neck broken from the fall. She comforts herself silently that Miss Pevensie would have felt no pain. There will be an inquiry at the home, she thinks to herself. After all her hard work.

As Nurse Richards turns away, her thoughts occupied with her own troubles, a robin alights on the new headstone. She peers down at the name inscribed upon it, and trills happily. It is as though she can read the words upon it, thinks Nurse Richards absently, but of course this is ridiculous. And as she walks through the graves to the church gate, an image of Miss Pevensie's face as she had found it comes into her mind, and she smiles, remembering that she had never seen Miss Pevensie look so alive.

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**So, after months of nothing (and shameful neglect regarding various stories I should have been reviewing), I bring you this rather depressing little offering, which came to me suddenly one day and has hung around persistently since. It's probably the last thing I'll write about Susan's journey, and in a way it concludes the set of my other writings about her, including "The Woman on the Platform", "Miserere" and "My Sister Susan".**

**I'd also like to say that this is only one way it may have turned out. I would be very sad to think this is how it happened, but it is a picture of what _might_ have been. I have set it in the present, when Susan would be about the appropriate age.**

**I'd love to hear some feedback on how I did with this, since it's really rather an odd piece of writing. So reviews are very much appreciated.**

**GeoffreyF  
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